“Harrold, this is Percival Jackson and his wife
Priscilla.” He clasped Percival's hand and nodded to the elegant woman next to
him. Her gown probably cost twice what Veronica's did, something she was sure
to complain about later. Veronica introduced him to two more pairs, all emigrated
from England with substantial inherited wealth. She might not meet his
expectations sexually, but Veronica was exceptional at getting her foot in the
most exclusive doors. It had proved financially beneficial in the past.
After standing by her side through several inane
conversations, Harrold's attention began to waver. Gazing over the assembly, he
paused to admire several bodices and more than one cinched waist. Having a wife
gave him respect and position, but Veronica took
no offense at his wandering eye. If anything, she encouraged it, eager for him to
find another bed.
The woman who drew his attention most wore a fitted
dress with short sleeves, her arms bare down to her fingertips. That was
probably why she was surrounded by men, each taking his turn holding her hand
and kissing those fingers. She looked his way, and he found himself unable to break
the gaze. Minutes later, he glanced her way again and admired her throat as she
tipped it back, laughing —no necklace. Obviously she wasn't the wife of any of
the guests: they wore gloves and necklaces as well as ornaments in their hair.
She was still smiling when she met his eyes again, holding his gaze like it
belonged to her. She blinked and turned, speaking to the gentlemen surrounding
her before leaving them and striding in his direction.
“Follow,” she said when she came near, walking right
past him.
He didn't excuse himself to his wife or her friends.
None of them seemed to take any notice. Veronica didn't break in conversation,
covering his withdrawl. The bewitching woman looked over her shoulder and
seemed unsurprised to see him there. Her eyes drew his attention, glittering
shards of topaz or amber. They seemed to glow unnaturally in the lamplight. She
led him down a corridor and opened a door next to a pair of chatting women.
Both watched them, but neither said a thing.
“You are a difficult man to get a hold of, Harrold. I
don't think I like that,” she said as she strode to a trimmed lamp and opened
it, casting the room in a gentle glow.
“Pardon, madam, but I'm sure I'd remember if I made your
acquaintance.”
Full red lips pulled up on one corner in a smirk. “You
had better believe you would.” Her lusty tone told him much. “We haven't met,”
she said, circling him. “I'd been informed that you were in need of my
services.”
Harrold's brow furrowed. What woman provided a service
he needed? What service...?
A light shone behind his eyes just as she said, “Delores
was quite insistent. More than is proper. I had to set her down for that.”
Lynn, for that must be who this woman was, regarded her painted nails. “She
enjoyed that, I think. Would you?” She glanced at Harrold from the corner of
those oddly sparkling eyes.
“Would I what?” He was completely flustered. How had a
whore gotten into this party?
Her palm slapped across his face. It was a sensation he
was familiar with. Many ladies had spurned his advances when he was younger.
However, this woman had a stronger arm than any of them. This pain rivaled that
of the time his cousin had punched him in the jaw for dandling his lady.
“You will pay heed when I speak. Would you enjoy being
reprimanded by me?”
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